Cause and Effect
by WednesdaysChylde
Summary: Harry's hiding from himself, but when Draco finds him... will our favorite Slytherin take advantage, or save the would-be saviour of the wizarding world? Slash probable, self-discovery a definite.
1. stormy weather

_All right kiddies. Standard disclaimer: Not mine. I will never be so lucky. All the same, I'd just like to say that this is my first attempt and as such... it merits kindness or at least some understanding on your part. Yes, it probably will be slash eventually. Consider yourself forewarned. And I know, it's hard to be original in this fandom, but I'mma try my darndest. So be patient and be gentle. Mwah._

A flash of lightening preceded the rolling boom of thunder that shook the castle windows, the reverberations echoing off of stone walls. The brief light revealed a dormitory-style room, neatly arranged beds swathed in crimson hangings, occupants of each still firmly ensconced in dreamland. All save one, anyway. As the last rumble faded into silence, a pair of impossibly green eyes slitted open, wary and alert.

One might be surprised at the speed at which this boy came awake, fully prepared to dive from the ample nest of blankets and pillows at the first sign of danger. One might be surprised at the hand that automatically groped for a slender length of wood hidden beneath one of those pillows- despite numerous warnings about how dangerous it was to keep a wand in a place like that. _Be blown yer head off, boy_, and he could almost hear Moody's grumbled warnings about kids today and reckless behavior. Of course, if you took into account that this boy- awake while the others slept on, ignorant and peaceful in their dreams- was The Boy, then maybe his natural tendency toward suspicion was understandable.

Still a pity, right?

But now he was awake, this boy whose still-developing muscles were easing from ready tension, and he couldn't just stay here in the dark. His nature lent itself toward action, so he threw aside the crimson and gold coverings and slid down from the bed. One hand still wrapped firmly around that wand, wood warming beneath white-knuckled fingers, while the other plucked a pair of glasses from the bedside table, sliding the nosepiece up with a gesture that had been practiced into fluidity. He couldn't help but hiss as bare feet contacted the cool stone floor, shuffling quickly to gather a robe to cover up the worn pajamas- flannel soft and faded with time and wear.

The boy moved quietly and without hesitation, easing the door to this little room open to allow him a silent escape. Obviously, he'd done this before- shutting the door just so to avoid a click, stepping over the creaky stair- his destination the common room below. Once there, he folded himself into a chair before the fireplace, crackling flames reflecting oddly off the grimy lenses of those spectacles.

The common room was deserted at this hour, couches and chairs all vacant and projecting an eerie feeling of _loneliness_. It was a feeling the boy was familiar with, and expressive features twisted in what might have been a rueful smile. He squirmed, settling himself more comfortably in the chair- and had he been any longer of limb, it would've been a tough squeeze- resting a tousled head on folded arms. The storm was abating outside, and the lone figure haunting the common room allowed eyelids to droop, sleep slowly claiming him once again.

So it was that the next morning, Harry Potter awoke to a very stiff neck and the concerned eyes of his friends.


	2. black, white, and shades of grey

_And once again with the "not mine, never will be mine, and oh woe is me." Yup. Angst ahead, lookout. And spoilers. Don't forget the ever-present threat of my telling you more than you want to know if you haven't read all the books up to this point._

"Harry, are you sure you're all right?"

Hermione's voice was shrill with anxiety, her dark eyes too wide in her freckled face. She was worried, after all. Harry never slept the night through anymore, it seemed. Morning after morning they would find him down here, sprawled on a couch or curled up in a chair, features that should be soft in sleep drawn into lines of... something not unlike pain.

"I'm fine, 'Mione. Honest," breathed Harry in what seemed like a scripted response. It was the same. She mothered, he brushed her off, and Ron...

"Come on, then. We'll see you down for breakfast, mate," the redhead managed a terse nod and latched onto Hermione's arm, tugging her away from a grateful Harry. It was a guy's credo: If he says he's fine, he's fine and don't ask weird girly questions or delve into emotions. Harry had never been more relieved that Ron was so firmly entrenched in that particular belief- probably ought to thank his brothers. Growing up in a household with that many guys was bound to result in Ron's intense discomfort with anything remotely resembling a heart-to-heart discussion.

True to his word, Harry made a dutiful appearance in the Great Hall, robes rumpled and glasses askew. He pointedly ignored the snickers from the Slytherin table, the jibes about his hastily combed hair or nattering about how the golden boy looked like he hadn't slept in a week, was he afraid of the dark? Sliding onto the bench between Ron and Dean Thomas, he snagged a piece of toast and began mutilating it in an absent-minded fashion. Hermione, seated on the other side of Ron, nudged him with a sharp elbow and made furious gestures in Harry's direction. Ron rolled his eyes, but obligingly caught up the bowl of eggs and a plate of sausages, pushing them toward his friend.

"Oughta eat something, Harry. You know, 'cause we've got practice later and you'll need the energy," he concluded lamely, stuffing his own mouth with a heavily-buttered piece of toast to hide how awkward he felt.

"Not really hungry, thanks," mumbled Harry, his attention clearly elsewhere. Several worried pairs of eyes rested upon his slight, hunched figure, most of them at the Gryffindor table. However, a few of the teachers had taken an interest in his...well, in his _disinterest_, and were also focused upon the boy still picking at his food.

The boy had withdrawn into himself after the disastrous events at the Department of Mysteries, his formerly boundless enthusiasm and curiosity waning. His grades were fine, he still played Quidditch, he still kept on like nothing was wrong... but it was. He was missing some vital spark, some crucial but indefinable _something_, and it was slowly taking its toll. Add in the fact that Harry refused to really talk about anything- his feelings, his fears, his grief- and more than one person began fearing for his sanity.

So the Gryffindors worried and the Slytherins smirked, the other Houses torn between the two and trying to remain aloof from this little drama. And the teachers? Some were concerned, others painfully aware of their own roles in the current situation and what little control they had after all.

"Really, Harry. At least have another piece of toast," coaxed Ginny, seating herself across from the trio. Exchanging a _look_ with Hermione, she pushed yet another plate in Harry's direction only to have him shoot up from his seat, green eyes dark with irritation.

"Stop trying to baby me, all right? I'm just not hungry. That's it. Leave off, already," and with that pronouncement, curiously flat in tone, he stormed out of the Hall.

At the Slytherin table, Draco Malfoy watched the exchange with an unreadable expression. He took note of the aftermath of Harry's quiet tantrum, the stricken look on Granger's face, the..ew... uncouth way that Weasley gaped, soggy half-chewed eggs visible to all. All filed away in the labrynthine depths of his mind, to be contemplated at a later time. For now, he settled for a sneer at Goyle, who was trying to fit yet another sausage link in his maw, before sweeping out of the Hall himself.

Harry was feeling immeasurably glad it was a Saturday. He didn't think he could face classes today- a sea of eyes all staring at the back of his head, wondering when he was going to snap. If they thought he didn't notice, they were sadly mistaken. _As usual_, he thought with a snort. Everyone was always wrong about him, and it was going to get them killed. Oh, Merlin... he had already gotten people killed. _Sirius_, he moaned silently, burying his face in his hands.

The young wizard had retreated to the lake's edge, perched on a crudely hewn stone bench. He knew they'd leave him alone, at least for a while. No one intruded on him out here- it was his place. And maybe it was a bit too close to the forest's edge, but he knew Hagrid was within shouting distance should need be.

Peeking between his fingers, he watched ripples dance across the lake's surface. The squid must be restless today. Either that, or... ah. Rain. He hadn't noticed the small droplets pelting him up to this point, too lost in his own misery and a half-hearted attempt at introspection. Tipping up angular features, he let the stinging drops land upon parted lips, plink against the lenses of his glasses. He'd always liked rain- it was raining when Hagrid came to tell him about the wizarding world, and it was often raining on his birthdays.

The light shower was swiftly becoming a downpour, plastering unruly raven locks to Harry's head, sodden robes sticking to a slight frame that was beginning to shiver imperceptibly. He supposed he should head back inside, but why? He wasn't going to melt, or wash away... and the rain wasn't at all judgemental; it wouldn't natter him, pester him, watch him for signs of the inevitable nervous breakdown. But if he stayed here, someone would come looking to draw him back inside- _like a pet that needs looking after, _he thought.

Grimly determined not to be coaxed back inside by well-intentioned friends, he gathered wet robes around him and set off on the path that wound around the lake. It didn't go anywhere, he and Ron had explored it already in the boyish, half-formed hope it would lead to a cave or something equally exciting. Really, it just wound in and out of the forest's edge, never leading far enough in to warrant a warning against traversing its path.

He knew he was being foolish. _Irresponsible Gryffindor,_ he berated himself in Professor Snape's disapproving baritone. But he was tired of going through the motions, and if walking in the rain made him feel better... made him feel _anything_, then he was going to do it.

And damn the consequences, anyway.

"What do you mean, you haven't seen him?"

"He wasn't at practice, 'Mione. I haven't seen him since breakfast."

"He's probably out by the lake again... we should go find him before the weather gets worse."

Draco listened as the voices faded, echoing oddly in the long hallway outside the library. The blond had been on his way to do some early research for a potion's essay, as the Gryffindor's had booked the practice field for the day. Imagine his surprise at hearing that not only did the Golden Boy not show up for that scheduled practice, he was also missing. _Not missing, avoiding_, he mentally corrected himself. It was an activity he was intimately familiar with, himself.

Still, how interesting that the illustrious Harry Potter should indulge in such a sneaky pastime, hiding out from his friends and causing so much worry. This could be useful... very useful. A fine-boned hand snuck within the folds of his robes, further crinkling a letter that had arrived days before. He knew the words by heart, now, had committed every threat and nuance to memory.

And now... opportunity had presented itself. It would be so easy to take advantage, but dare he? Trademark smirk wending its way across thin lips, he pivoted and headed swiftly back down toward the dungeons. So much to do and so little time...


	3. accidents will happen

_Me, back again. Let's face it, we've all read these ruddy disclaimers enough times to know... we don't own these lovely characters or anything about them. We just like to torment them every now and then. So probable violence ahead, 'cause things are gonna get bumpy quick now. _

Harry was not going to regret his decision. He was _not_. He already had a lifetime of regrets, and it was a heavy burden upon teenaged shoulders. Slumping, he fitted himself into the gnarled roots of an overlarge tree, robes puddling around him in the mud. He was so tired sometimes. Tired of the responsibility, tired of the expectations... just tired.

Forehead thunked softly against the rough bark of the tree's trunk, he huddled and shivered and gave into his misery. Sirius was dead. Dumbledore didn't trust him. Snape thought he was a fool. He had endangered his friends... Merlin. He was supposed to be some great saviour, and all he managed to do was muck things up.

Tears mingling with rainwater, he let despair and anger and every other pent up emotion wash over him. Impotent rage burst forth, and Harry beat his fists against the tree, screaming wordlessly. Not until his knuckles were ragged and bloody did he cease, tears drying up as quickly as they had come.

Now he just felt hollow... empty as a drum. Emotionally exhausted, he rested against the tree, eyes puffy and half-lidded.

"Defeated the evil tree, did you?"

Harry startled, scrambling up with his wand at the ready. Blearily peering through the streaked lenses of his glasses, he searched out the owner of the voice.

"Who's there?"

A low chuckle sounded, a cloaked figure stepping out of the lengthening shadows. Harry tightened his grasp on his wand, eyeing the figure uncertainly. Not tall enough to be an adult... a student, then.

Pale eyes flickered in the depths of the hood, and Harry's heart sank.

"Malfoy," he stated cooly, not lowering his wand.

"Potter. Trying to drown yourself?" Smirking, the blond lowered his hood and surveyed his waterlogged companion.

"Sod off, Malfoy."

"Awfully rude of you, Potter. The whole castle's in an uproar looking for you, you know," he lied smoothly, watching the other's face falter into lines of guilt. Ridiculously easy to read, Harry wore his heart on his sleeve... and Draco certainly wasn't above manipulating those too obvious emotions.

"And you gallantly volunteered to come find me?" Harry scoffed.

"No, you git. Dumbledore has all of the prefects out looking, and I just happen to be the lucky one to find you," another lie, this one accompanied by a roll of stormy grey eyes, as if he had so many other important things to be doing other than traipsing around the woods after a missing Harry Potter.

"Fine, you found me. Bloody congrats," sighed the sodden Gryffindor, lowering his wand at last. He tucked it back in the waistband of his overlarge jeans, turning to make his way back toward the little dirt path that led back around the lake.

_Far too easy, _Draco thought, whipping out his own wand to stun the other boy. Harry didn't even manage to turn around as the curse left Draco's lips, crumpling to the soggy ground without so much as a cry for help. Another roll of his eyes and the Slytherin advanced on his fallen classmate, nudging the boy in the side with a booted foot. Harry flopped bonelessly onto his back, mud and the remnants of tear-stains streaking pallid features. Draco quelled a sudden feeling of unease at how vulnerable the other boy looked, instead fishing in the pockets of his robes for a small charm, which he tied around one of Harry's bony wrists. Merlin, didn't the boy ever eat?

Kneeling there in the mud, he contemplated his next move. The new bit of jewelry Harry was sporting was a match to one worn around Draco's neck, and would prevent anyone from plotting their location, which was handy... especially this close to the school. All Draco had to do was get them both to the far wards, and then he could apparate them both to a more secure location. Lips pursed, he fumbled with Harry's robes, peeling the sodden fabric back to retrieve the other boy's wand... which was summarily tucked within a concealed pocket in his own rapidly dampening robes. Drat the weather, anyway.

Satisfied he had more than the upper hand, he straightened and stepped back to revive his... prisoner. Feeling unsettled by even the thought of that word, he shook himself and pointed the tip of his wand at the prone figure.

"Ennervate," he muttered quietly, watching Harry's lashes flutter to reveal those famously green eyes- now bright with betrayal.

"Just what do you think you're playing at, Malfoy?" he hissed, automatically reaching for his wand... and swearing when he discovered its removal.

"Shut it, Potter. Get up, and don't try to run or I'll do more than stun you this time," threatened Draco, the menace in his voice plain.

Harry obligingly stood, making an ineffectual effort to wipe his glasses off on muddy robes. That done, he folded arms across his chest, trying not muster the energy to glare at his opponent... managing a weak glower at best.

"Don't be stupid, Malfoy. We're in the ruddy Forest, and it'll be getting dark soon. Let's just go back to the castle and you can play junior Death Eater some other time," he sneered, feeling somewhat triumphant as the pale Slytherin flushed with irritation.

Draco leveled his wand at Harry, hissing a quick stinging hex, smirking as the other boy yelped and clapped a hand to his cheek- where a painful red weal had appeared.

"Are you mad? That was close to my eye," muttered an incensed Harry, gently fingering the new wound.

"I meant it when I told you to shut it, Potter. Now move, that way," the blond gritted out, gesturing deeper into the Forest. If they skirted too close to the edge, someone would likely spot them- he had no doubt that the Weasel and his girlfriend would be on the lookout, at the very least. So it was into the Forest with them... at least until they reached the edge of the wards protecting the campus. Harry muttered, but did as he was instructed, picking gingerly through the damp underbrush, robes trailing in the mud. Draco followed, wand pointed directly at the other boy's retreating back.

The rain had not ceased, fat droplets still filtering through the leafy canopy overhead. The heavy clouds produced an early twilight, lengthening the shadows in the forest into eerie shapes. Harry fought not to fidget or jump at every crackle of leaves, wondering if Draco knew just how many dangerous _things_ were out here with them. His fingers twitched, dearly missing the reassuring presence of his wand... and he had to wonder what Draco had done with it. Did the other boy have it, or had he tossed it away?

He could hear the other boy behind him, spitting curses at the grasping vines and branches that plucked at his hair and robes. Harry caught at a lengthy branch as he passed, pushing it forward and then throwing himself down as it swung back, and judging from the muffled yelp it had hit Malfoy right in the face. Taking his chances, Harry scrambled up and took off at a dead sprint, throwing himself headlong into the gloom of the forest. He could hear the enraged Slytherin shouting curses at him, light sizzling through the woods as Draco cast haphazardly.

Harry was just beginning to feel a small flush of triumph when a well-aimed stunner caught him between the shoulder blades, inertia propelling him forward enough to connect with the reaching branches of a tree. A sharp pain blossomed, radiating out from the vicinity of his left shoulder and following him down into blessed darkness.


	4. into the dark

_Why yes, I am evil. So good of you to notice. Anyway. Still not mine, and I'm still sad. Sniff. But anyway. On with the tale, and yes... slash and angsty goodness ahead. And pain. 'Cause what is drama without a little blood? Oh. And thanks to my first reviewer, you are loverly coffeebean!_

To say Draco had been surprised at Harry's little manuever with the tree branch would be an understatement. The Gryffindor fought dirty! Who would've thought? Sputtering, he spit out leaves and curses, clearing his gaze just in time to see the smaller boy dart into the trees. He followed, of course, casting stunners and leg-lockers as quickly as he could, pleased beyond measure when one finally caught the fleet-footed golden boy in the back.

Pleasure quickly turned to horror as Draco watched the boy plummet forward and then come to an abrupt halt, hanging sickeningly from the branch that had impaled his shoulder. The wood protruded from Harry's back, slick with rainwater and blood. The younger wizard's head lolled to one side, face greyish-white beneath his tan.

"Oh, Merlin..." breathed a very shocked Draco, trembling hands moving to... to what? Should he pull the other boy down? He couldn't leave him there, the blood was probably going to attract all sorts of...things.

Gritting his teeth, the tall Slytherin braced himself and tugged the other boy free, nearly collapsing under the unexpected dead weight. Harry didn't make a sound as the branch slid free of his flesh, not so much as a whimper as fresh blood seeped out to stain robes and skin.

"Ennervate," grunted Draco, tightening his grasp upon the slighter boy's frame as Harry sprang reluctantly into consciousness once again.

"Potter, stop squirming. You're just going to make it worse," muttered Draco, too busy to contemplate why he was trying to comfort his opponent.

"M-Malfoy?" Harry struggled upright, trying in vain to put some distance between him and his would-be captor. His legs refused to hold him up though, and he wobbled to an ungainly sort of crouch, head bowed, damp raven locks straggling into eyes glazed in pain. Draco pursed his lips, looking over his wounded classmate with a mixture of concern and irritation. Making an abrupt decision, he bent and swung one of Harry's thin arms over his shoulders, levering the slighter boy upright.

"We've got to move, Potter. Your blood is going to attract something nasty in a minute, and I'd rather not be here," muttered in the injured wizard's ear as he took a stumbling step forward, trying to accustom himself to the added weight. Harry was little help, too pale and trembling... _shock_, thought Draco with a mental groan.

He would just have to find a place to hide for the moment, to rest until Harry was well enough to make it out of the Forest. Neither of them would make it very far like this, and Draco wasn't about to get himself killed trying to carry _Potter_, of all people. So he resolutely tightened his grasp upon the smaller boy and struggled forward, trying to keep his wand at the ready.

For his part, Harry was doing his level best not to just give into the darkness threatening to overwhelm him again. His wounded shoulder was throbbing, a white-heat that radiated pain outward to lance down his arm and up his neck at the same time. It left him breathless, all at once too hot and too cold beneath the oppressive weight of wet robes.

"Malfoy... we have to stop," he panted, trying to draw the other boy to a halt. It was like trying to stop a runaway bus, the other's slight figure belaying a wiry sort of strength. Harry stumbled, and bit back a gasp as his classmate merely tightened his grasp and pulled him along.

"Don't whine, Potter. We have to... ah. There's a cave ahead, I think. We can rest there for the night," came Malfoy's clipped tones, the tiniest hint of uncertainty lingering beneath the normally smooth tenor.

"A cave? You just want to waltz into a cave in the middle of the bloody Forest? Merlin, what if there's something in there? You're going to get us killed, Malfoy," Harry tried once again to dig his heels in and stop the other boy, but found himself jerked off of his feet instead, pale eyes suddenly inches from his own.

"Potter. Shut. Up. I'm not daft- I'll go check the cave. You stay right here," he stated firmly, more or less dropping Harry against the slender trunk of a tree. He seemed to be considering something... but shook his head, water glistening in the fine blond strands. Dazed and breathless, Harry rested against the tree, watching the platinum beacon that was Malfoy's head disappear into the gloom. Distantly, he knew he should try to run now... to escape this situation. But he was wounded, wandless, and lost- and altogether, those factors made any ideas at running off into the Forest not only improbable, but laughable.

_No time to get hysterical, Harry..._he chided himself, struggling to stay awake and wary of whatever might come lurching out of the shadows. But as Malfoy failed to reappear, worry began to prickle at him, raising the hairs on the back of his neck. Gritting his teeth, he struggled upright, using the tree to keep himself from pitching face-first into the mud.

"Malfoy?"

Silence, and it was eerie. Harry set his jaw, teeth clenched against the insistent throbbing of his shoulder, and shuffled forward, having to catch himself against a tree every so often. He could see the cave now, its depths impenetrable from his current distance.

"Malfoy?"

He hazarded again, and was once again greeted with silence. Taking a deep breath, he bent and picked up a relatively stout stick, clutching it in the hand that wasn't nerveless with pain. Holding the make-shift weapon at the ready, Harry resumed his slow trek to the cave and allowed its entrance to swallow him.


	5. world gone astray

_Aha. Still not mine, but I'm still stringing them along. Thanks for hanging with me, and do be aware this isn't for the kiddies. I just wanna thank coffeebean for the steadfast support. You are a doll, truly. Also my other reviewers, thanks for the tip. This is my first fanfic in this genre, so yeah... it's a might bumpy, but I'm getting there. _

The darkness was absolute, all-encompassing, and for just a moment, Harry had the dizzying feeling that if he stretched his fingers out just so, it would rub off on them, thick like oil. That was if he could see his fingers, of course. At the moment, he could make out little at all, eyes struggling to adjust to the gloom.

"Malfoy?"

_Foy..oy...oy_, came back the eerie echo, rebounding off the stone walls of the cave. Harry took a breath, tasting damp earth on the back of his tongue. Rain pattered outside, and inside he could hear the steady _plink _of water from another source... he could feel it on his skin, cool and oppressive as the darkness itself.

Dimly, the young wizard could make out the slick contours of the cave walls, but only through great effort and quite a bit of squinting. He was relieved to note the lack of spider webbing, but it didn't rid him of the thrumming undertone of wariness that kept that branch held forth in clubbing position. Scanning the gloomy interior of the cave, he edged further inside- mindful to feel his way out with caution, aware that the slightest misstep would have him face down in the mud for the umpteenth time that day, and Harry wasn't sure he had the energy to pick himself up again.

It was those mincing, shuffling steps that saved him. He had only made it a few yards within the cave, faintly preoccupied with surprise at finding it extended so deeply, when a cautiously extended foot encountered space where there should have been floor. Harry almost pitched forward, dropping his crude weapon as he flailed wildly back in effort to regain his balance. He wasn't quite successful, finding himself abruptly seated at the yawning edge of what appeared to be a pit.

Breathless, heart-thudding painfully within his chest, he flopped backward and attempted to catch his breath. Merlin, but that had been close. It was with a familiar sense of foreboding that he rolled onto his stomach, hissing at the pressure that little trick placed against his wounded shoulder. _Can't be helped_, he thought resolutely. Squirming forward a bit, he peered down into the depths of the cavernous pit, stomach twisting oddly when he glimpsed a familiar shock of white-blond.

"Malfoy, can you hear me? Are you all right?"

Anxious, he willed movement out of that streak of pallor against the darkness. Harry was gratified a moment later when a groan sounded, and Draco's unmistakable voice drifted up to him.

"What a stupid question, Potter. I fell down a bloody hole, of course I'm not all right."

Harry could only grin in relief. If Draco was up to being sarcastic and biting, all was relatively right with the world. He squinted, trying to get a better glimpse of his classmate- only able to make out a flash of silvery eyes and that too-white shock of hair.

"Give us a light, Malfoy, so we can find you a way out of there," Harry began only to be cut off by a gruff mumble.

"IbrokemywandwhenIfell..."

"What? Speak English, Malfoy."

"I. Broke. My. Wand," spat the Slytherin, normally smooth voice strained with irritation and just a hint of fear.

"Then toss me my wand and I'll-"

Interrupted again, this time by a sharp burst of laughter, its bitter amusement ringing off the stone walls to fill the cave with the sounds of Draco's suspicion.

"Toss _you_ a wand, Potter? Do you think I shook my brains loose when I fell?"

"Just because you'd leave a classmate down in that hole to rot doesn't mean I will, Malfoy," sneered Harry, his temper finally getting the best of him.

"Of course not, not perfect Harry Potter," hissed the incensed Slytherin in return, pale eyes flashing in the darkness.

"Drop it, Malfoy. This isn't exactly a good time for name-calling," Harry's anger abruptly fled, leaving him shaky and exhausted once again. He peered down, eyeing the other boy's upturned face.

"Look, use my wand then, or can you climb up on your own?"

The suggestions were met by silence, faint sounds of scrabbling and muttered curses floating up to reach Harry's ears. So intent was the young wizard upon his classmate's progress, he failed to notice the _skritch_ of claws on stone behind him, blissfully unaware of the pair of lantern-yellow eyes that flickered into existence, malevolent and predatory against the inky blackness.

It wasn't until something sharp and insistent closed upon an ankle that he wrenched around, a scream rattling in his throat.

Draco was beginning to wonder if he was cursed- or if it was the golden boy's phenomenal luck for finding trouble that had infected him. After all, there could be no other explanation for a Malfoy- a graceful, elegant, dignified Malfoy- falling into a _hole._

It was miraculous that he hadn't seriously hurt anything in taking his unplanned tumble. Bruised, to be certain, and his wand hand was a bit mangled- the wrist sprained at the very least and fingers stiffening and uncooperative. The wand had taken the brunt of the damage, snapped unevenly in two, and Draco mournfully eyed the pieces.

A scratch on his forehead was sluggishly oozing blood, viscous red droplets doing their level best to drip directly into his left eye. He swiped irritably at it, trying once again to find a handhold that would permit him to begin his ascent. A nail tore, and Draco hissed as he drew back, popping the wounded digit in his mouth.

Craning his neck up, he peered upward, prepared to sneer at Harry should he find amusement in Draco's current misery. A cutting remark on his lips, he caught the other boy's eyes in the darkness and felt his heart constrict. Harry's eyes _glowed_, green as any cats' in the gloom. It sent an odd shiver up Draco's spine, one that had nothing to do with being cold, wet, or battered.

He found himself inanely wondering if his eyes were visible from the ledge above- if they flickered silver, assuring Harry that he was indeed alive and well. The thought was peculiar, to say the least, and Draco rolled it over in his mind... examining _why_ he cared if the other boy worried, why he didn't want Harry to feel all alone in the dark.

A scuffling sound broke him from the unwelcome reverie, and he stared ineffectually upward.

"Potter? What are you doing up there?"

No answer- another scuffling sound and a muffled scream abruptly shattering the silence, and Draco felt his stomach drop. He began a frantic search for the ever-elusive handholds that would allow him to climb out of this pit, the sounds of a furious scuffle filtering down along with assorted trash- mostly stones and leaves, all raining down upon the blond's head.

"Potter!"

Blinking against the grit in his eyes, he sputtered and hissed at the indignity of being showered in flotsam. Eyes streaming, he glared up at the ledge in time to catch sight of a dark shape hurtling over and rapidly downward.

Draco froze, his famously (or is that infamously) quick mind absolutely blank as the shape grew larger and larger and then finally-

"Ooof!"

Finding himself horizontal yet again was unpleasant. Finding himself pinned beneath a senseless Harry Potter was nothing short of disastrous.

"Potter," Draco found himself sighing the name, gently (gently?) rolling the smaller boy off of him and onto the ground. Those cat-green eyes slitted open, and Draco's hand froze on its path to pat the younger wizard's cheek- intending to rouse him, of course. He cleared his throat, glancing aside in sudden inexplicable embarrassment.

"So you decided to give flying a go, did you?"

Retreating back into sarcasm to cover the sudden awkwardness, he cast a sharp glance to the other boy. Harry just chuckled weakly, amusement flickering in the emerald depths providing the only color in a pallid face.

"Broomless- the only way to go," he wheezed, startling a laugh out of Draco.

"Bright, Potter. Now we're both stuck down here," but the Slytherin couldn't really find it in him to be angry with his companion. And just when did he go from _prisoner_ to _companion_, anyway? Faint lines of confusion marred Draco's forehead, finely-arched brows drawn toward the bridge of an aqualine nose.

"Sorry," came a soft murmur, "there was this...thing up there and I lost my balance."

"What _thing?" _

"Dunno... thing. Big yellow eyes, sharp teeth, claws... sort of thing," Harry concluded somewhat lamely, the words sounding strained.

Draco gave up trying to search out movement in the darkness, instead turning a sharp look upon the fallen wizard. A long moment passed in silence, and then Draco did the unthinkable.

"Here, Potter. Give us a light," he muttered gruffly, placing the stolen wand back within its rightful owner's grasp.

"_Lumos_," whispered the smaller youth, and though the word sounded as if it might be his last, his smile was brilliant in the sudden light.

Back at the castle, Hermione was fast becoming frantic. She had thoroughly searched all of Harry's favorite retreats- rechecked them as well- and still no sign of the missing Gryffindor.

Dejected and anxious, she waited in the common room for Ron's return. He had volunteered to look outside, stammering something about the weather and Hermione catching cold, fair skin aflame at his own attempted chivalry.

The young witch couldn't help but smile at the memory, clutching a scarlet-tasseled illow to her chest. Ron could be so sweet- when he wasn't being an insensitive prat, that was.

The portrait swung open and the red-headed wizard in question clambered through, raindrops dripping from his freckled nose. He swept his cloak off with a sigh, throwing it over a fire-side chair, where it began steaming.

"Did you find him?"

Ron favored her with a solemn shake of his head, pacing in front of the fireplace.

"No, 'Mione... no sign of him. Hagrid said he hadn't seen him all day," he muttered.

"Ron, I'm worried. It's going to be dark soon... what if he's gotten lost or something's happened to him?"

Hermione's very fertile imagination began conjuring horrific images of her friend in distress- warm brown eyes widening in sympathetic terror.

"Mione, stop. Breathe," and Ron's hand were shockingly warm on her shoulders. Startled, she stared into concerned eyes, trying to will her gibbering thoughts into silence.

"Oh, Ron. I'm just worried," she quavered.

Ron looked momentarily stricken, face pale beneath its scattering of freckles. He wasn't accustomed to being thrust into this role- Harry was the de facto leader of the group, a natural born commander, strong and charismatic. Hermione was the brains- cool, logical, usually calm in the face of crisis. But Harry was missing, and Hermione? Ron was bewildered by her sudden emotionality, the way her lower lip trembled, the way she was wringing her hands.

"We'll go tell McGonagall that Harry's missing, and..ah. Dumbledore. They'll know what to do, right?"

Sniffing, the young witch curled clammy fingers around Ron's hand, allowing him to pull her from the couch cushions.

"That's a good idea, Ron. Let's go find Professor McGonagall, then," and suddenly the balance had returned. Hermione was calm and determined, and Ron... well. It was a very relieved Ronald Weasley that followed his best friend out of the common room, marveling silently that she was still holding his hand.


	6. momentum

_Me again. Still muddling through here, and these characters and whatnot still belong to..well. Duh. Not me, obviously. Thanks for the reviews and encouragement, lovelies. I do 'preciate it. And this is a teensy bit of artistic license, 'cause I will be resurrecting the elder Mr. Malfoy... so he's not in prison in my little world. 'Cause I need him. And because he's a fantastic character, so nyah._

* * *

Draco fed another small branch to the fire he'd managed to cobble together from the trash littering the cavern floor. It wasn't very impressive, to be certain- he'd just managed to get Harry to light the fire before the younger wizard succumbed to his exhaustion. Once the golden boy had slipped back into unconsciousness, Draco reclaimed his wand- he wasn't about to sit around in the dark with some _thing, _as Harry called it, hunting somewhere above them. 

Pensive, the blond Slytherin cast another uneasy glance toward the lip of the pit, seeking out movement or, gods forbid, a flash of yellow eyes. Seeing none, he relaxed marginally, his gaze straying to the figure curled up a few feet to his left. _Potter really is catlike_, he mused, finding the revelation somewhat disconcerting.

As if sensing the scrutiny, Harry stirred fretfully, whimpering in his sleep. Draco flinched, casting a critical eye over the other boy. In sleep, Harry looked impossibly frail. It became apparent that much of the famed Gryffindor's strength lay within sheer force of personality- and when not in motion, blazing eyes hooded by bruised lids- Harry was bereft, just another youth... a would-be casualty of war.

Draco's gaze was drawn to the notorious scar, livid against pallid flesh. Such a small thing to call so much attention, really. In the flickering light, he could just make out fading scratches, as if someone had tried to claw the mark into non-existence. Draco couldn't help but wonder if it was the Golden Boy himself that had done that in a fit of what was fast becoming characteristic rage, or if it had occurred during his one-sided battle with the tree earlier in the day.

Harry made another faint noise of protest in the back of his throat, drawing Draco's attention once more. Heaving a long-suffering sigh, the blond scooted to his side, prodding the slumbering boy in his uninjured shoulder.

"Potter. Wake up," he ordered, doing his best to sound put upon rather than concerned. The other boy moaned, reluctantly prying lashes apart to peer at his companion. Draco thought he glimpsed something in Harry's eyes- terror? confusion?- before recognition seemed to filter in.

"Malfoy," he greeted wearily, running a hand that trembled imperceptibly through disordered raven locks.

"Potter," Draco returned, and then, perhaps feeling he owed an explanation, "You were having a nightmare."

That something swam up behind Harry's eyes again, clouding the emerald green to a dull jade.

"Thanks," Harry murmured, effectively shocking them both into silence once again. Merlin, were they having a civil conversation? _Close enough, _thought Draco with a wry sort of amusement.

A thousand different questions crowded to the tip of the Slytherin's sharp tongue, demanding he give voice to _something_, be it concern or curiosity.

"We should go. Before that... whatever comes back," Harry stated flatly, and the moment was lost. Draco hitched a shrug, unfolding long legs and rising in one fluid motion. If he was stiff or sore, he didn't show it by the languid grace of his movements. _Malfoys don't show weakness,_ he thought humorlessly, waiting with characteristic impatience on Potter to rise.

* * *

Harry felt as if his entire left side was on fire, throbbing in time to the racing cadence of his heart. His ankle was thrumming a dull counterpoint to the white-hot pain of his shoulder, but both would have to be tolerated for the moment. 

Malfoy was watching him, cool and aloof- his aristocratic features marred with flaking blood and a fain smudging of dirt. _Makes him look more human,_ Harry found himself thinking, somewhat uncharitably, and then he had to squash a rising wave of guilt.

_He's trying to help you, git._

_Yeah, and you wouldn't be out here if not for him._

If that wasn't self-defeating, Harry didn't know what was. So resolutely telling his inner monologue to shove off, he scrambled upright only to find the floor was canting sickeningly to one side.

Then he felt steadying arms around him, wiry muscles unyielding in their support. The pressure on his wounded shoulder made him breathless, however, and Harry shied back with a sibilant hiss. He found himself staring into fathomless silver eyes, smoky depths reflecting what might've been hurt before the trademarked Malfoy sneer slid into place.

Harry teetered as the taller youth stood back, but managed to remain more or less upright by bracing himself on the craggy rockface. Breathing deeply, he pushed down rising nausea and dizziness to favor Malfoy with an inquisitive look.

"So.."

The other boy snorted, his gaze speculative as it swept the walls of the pit.

"You can't climb, Potter."

"No, but you can... and then you could levitate me out," Harry suggested, feeling maybe a tad superior at having come up with a plan.

Malfoy looked shocked, smoky eyes wide above the bruised slashes of cheekbones.

"You would trust me to climb out of here with _your_ wand, in the idiotic hope that I will turn around and levitate you out," the pale Slytherin stared, unblinkingly, at a bemused Harry Potter.

"That's generally the idea, Malfoy," he agreed with the tiniest of smiles.

"Besides, you're going up first, to make sure that _thing_ is gone."

"Ah, so the noble Gryffindor is not entirely altruistic," drawled Malfoy, looking relieved.

"Prat. Now get to climbing."

A quirk of brows was the only sign of the Slytherin's surprise, and to Harry's own amazement he actually turned and began an unsteady ascent. It was several long moments before Harry realized he'd been holding his breath, watching Malfoy scale the rock face inch by agonizing inch.

Suddenly dizzied by the cognitive dissonance of cheering on his long-time rival, the dark-headed wizard glanced aside... and caught a flash of yellow eyes against the darkness.

"Malfoy! Look out!"

And was that really his voice, reedy and pitched into a boyish octave of terror?

The lanky blond started, nearly losing his tenuous handhold. Harry could only watch, helpless, as the Slytherin tried to maintain his grasp and wrestle the borrowed wand out of his robes. With a gritted curse, Malfoy freed himself and the wand of the enveloping swath of fabric, aiming unerringly at the pair of eyes watching his progress with predatory interest.

"_Stupefy!"_

Red light sizzled through the darkness, and Harry quickly blinked away afterimages. When his vision cleared, Malfoy had scrambled over the lip of the pit and out of his line of sight.

Another flash of colored light left the anxious Gryffindor blinking again, scanning the darkness for the familiar platinum blond through the lingering blotches that marred his vision.

"Malfoy!"

As if on cue, the smirking young wizard leaned back into Harry's view, one brow arched in eloquent signal of condescension.

"Afraid I'd run off and left you, Potter?"

"You wish."

Deja vu of a sort, and they both lapsed into an awkward silence. Finally Harry cleared his throat, turning expectant eyes upon the other.

"You really do trust me to get you out of there, don't you?"

The blond's expression was indecipherable, shuttered- it was not an unfamiliar look on the Malfoy heir. But the wondering note in his voice gave Harry pause. He nodded slowly, solemnly... keeping an even gaze locked on the older boy.

"Yes."

Simply that, no conditions or demands- just acceptance. He watched emotion flicker across Malfoy's pale, pointed features, too quickly to be named or marveled over.

A moment later, he fought back a triumphant whoop as invisible hands swept him up and out of the crevasse.

* * *

Draco's mind was a jumbled confusion of recrimination, guilt, pride, uncertainty, and above all... astonishment. Potter trusted him. _Him, _would-be kidnapper, tormentor and rival of years, a Slytherin- no, not _a _Slytherin, _the _Slytherin, and that fool of a naive Gryffindor just stood there and accepted him as a saviour. The mind boggled. 

He cast a sidelong look to his classmate, watching him trudge along in a pained silence. Draco could make out the muscles in Potter's jawline, clenching and writhing beneath skin that looked as papery-white and brittle as old parchment. _Gritting his teeth, _Draco realized. The long-legged blond slowed his strides, allowing the other boy to catch up. He no longer had to worry about the other escaping- Harry was having difficulty walking, nevermind the ridiculous notion of running. Draco had seriously considered leaving the brunette in that little hole- going to fetch the help that probably waited right outside the anti-apparation wards. He had abandoned the notion though, fearing something else would come along and snack on the idiot Gryffindor.

"Potter," he began, smooth tenor lacking its usual hint of malice.

The other boy favored him with an incurious look, as if it required too much energy to even bother with a vocal response. Flustered for reasons he could not give definition to, the blond Slytherin's glance slid aside, away from the irritating boy-hero that was causing him so much trouble... and then back again, as if compelled.

"Potter, I - "

Whatever he had been about to say was lost as a familiar tingle swept over the weary young wizards. They had reached the outer edges of the wards.

Lucius Malfoy was anxious. Not that he'd ever admit that, mind you, but still he paced, clipped footfalls swallowed up by the cushioning dampness of grass. This was a fool's errand, waiting out here in the cold November air for a _boy_ to deliver a prize such as Harry Potter when so many experienced wizards had failed. Granted, it was _his _boy, but Lucius held no special regard for his son's abilities. The boy lacked subtlety, rushing headlong into things with all the finesse of a rabid wolf.

Imagine his surprise when the Dark Lord insisted he give Draco this task- to lure The Boy Who Lived out of Hogwart's cradling wards and into the open. Lucius supposed it was a test of some sort, and so he was pacing along this side of the wards, pale eyes scanning the darkness for sign of his son. It would not do for Draco to fail in this, it would not do at all.

"Lucius. Stop that infernal pacing at once," ordered a curt baritone somewhere to his left. Severus Snape. The Potions Master was leaning against a tree, hooded eyes tracking the elegant blond's attempts to wear a track into the grass.

Lucius continued his pacing, not even bothering to sneer at the darker man. Snape was there ostensibly to keep any of Dumbledore's little warning glyphs from picking up on the presence of the Death Eater's scattered throughout the Forbidden Forest. How he was disabling them, Lucius hadn't bothered to ask.

"Severus, don't presume to command me. I am not one of your sniveling students."

"This entire affair rests on the shoulders of one of my _sniveling students_, need I remind you?"

"No, it rests on the shoulders of a Malfoy," Lucius corrected with a superior lift of his spade-sharp chin, challenge clearly flickering in cold grey eyes.

The Potions Master muttered something inaudible, folding arms across his chest to resume a silent vigil on this edge of the wards. The elder Malfoy smirked, mentally claiming a win in this, the latest of their sniping matches. It was then the sounds of approach reached both men's ears, bringing Snape around from his leisurely post and finally putting an end to Lucius' pacing. Wands at the ready, they peered into the shadows, both relaxing minutely as a familiar blond head came into view.

"Draco," greeted the elder Malfoy, watching his son's eyes widen comically. The boy was so... untrained at times it was painful. How many years had he spent explaining that Malfoys don't show emotion- emotion is weak, and weakness is not to be tolerated.

"Father, Professor Snape," the young blond murmured, inclining his chin in a brief but respectful nod.

Snape was circling a battered Potter, looking not unlike a hungry shark, all teeth and anticipation. The young wizard swayed, tremors wracking his slight frame. The boy was clearly exhausted, the hectic spots of color in his cheeks betraying the beginning hints of fever- most likely from the shoulder wound Lucius could glimpse oozing blood and thicker things from the tattered shoulder seam of his school robe.

"I must say I am impressed, young Mr. Malfoy," began the Potions Master, earning a weak glare from the young would-be hero.

"You slimy, traitorous git," hissed Potter, and all three of his captors rolled their eyes skyward.

"Oh, shut it, Potter," growled Draco, stalking to his father's side with quick, angry strides.

Lucius cast an appraising glance over both young wizards before catching Severus' beetle-black eyes, perfectly-arched brows rising in question.

"Mr. Malfoy, I will be escorting you back to the castle. Your father will take Potter from here," Snape stated in his usual clipped tones, an unspoken warning in those dark eyes effectively silencing any protests Draco might've sputtered.

Lucius rested a hand on one of his son's shoulders, overlooking layers of dirt and grime just this once. Draco glanced up, looking startled and pleased all at once.

"Draco. I am proud of you, son. You've done a great service for our Lord, and neither he or I will soon forget it," the elder Malfoy pronounced, squeezing that shoulder before stepping back and tangling a fist in Potter's unruly dark locks.

"See that he gets back to the castle unnoticed, Severus."

With a last look at his son, he disappeared with his prize.


	7. turning out so dark

_Hullo again, my chil'rens. Thanks so much for sticking with me, and for your reviews and support. This chapter is a bit heavy on the dialogue, but there is some torture... nothing graphic, though. Not yet. Mwaha. Be forewarned and, as always, enjoy._

_oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo_

Draco found himself staring at the space formerly occupied by his longtime school rival, feeling an undefinable sense of _loss. _Folding his arms against a sudden chill, he glanced up to his Professor, surprised to find the dark man watching him closely.

"Professor?"

Uncomfortable beneath the sharp black stare, he shifted weight from foot to foot, almost sheepish in expression.

"Mr. Malfoy. You seem... pensive for someone who has accomplished so impressive a feat."

Draco took a breath to deny it, and then sagged a little, feeling weary of subterfuge and lies. He'd never really tried to deceive Professor Snape. The man had always given him the impression he could read minds- maybe it was the eyes, inscrutable and hard as chips of onyx.

"I... where is he taking Potter?"

Better to just speak his mind, and was that surprise he saw on the Potions Master's sallow face?

"Most likely to the Manor, to await the arrival of the Dark Lord. Does that disturb you, Mr. Malfoy?"

Draco felt pinned by the older man's scrutiny, at a loss as to how to answer. It was then he realized he was still in possession of the other boy's wand, still clutching the smooth shaft of wood in numb fingers.

"Are they going to kill him?"

The question sprang unbidden from his lips, gaze riveted to the wand- _like a trophy_, and suddenly he didn't want it anymore. He thrust it toward the towering figure of his Professor, unreasonably grateful when long, stained fingers plucked it from his grasp.

"I am not privy to that information, Mr. Malfoy. Come, now. We should return before you are terribly missed."

"As if they'd notice with Potter gone. The whole castle is probably searching for him," sneered the young Malfoy, purely out of habit. Reality set in then, and he blanched. _Oh, Merlin... he's gone. And I did it. _

Struggling to smother a niggling feeling of _my fault, my fault_, he allowed a silent Professor Snape to steer him back in the direction of the castle.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

An uncharacteristically solemn Albus Dumbledore eyed the perpetually solemn Potions Master seated across from him. Severus had returned to the castle not fifteen minutes before, and after divesting himself of a very subdued Draco Malfoy, he had made his way to the Headmaster's office. So distracted was he by the evening's events, he didn't even spare a thought to the Headmaster's ridiculous choice of password.

"Severus, how is our young Mr. Malfoy?"

"Confused. There is a world of difference in name-calling and kidnapping, Albus. I think this has been an unpleasant dose of reality for him," sighed the younger man, recalling the utterly _lost_ look upon his young ward's face. It was a sharp reminder that these were children, after all- for all the posturing and the expectations, they were so damnably young.

"And Harry?"

Severus allowed himself the luxury of a weary sigh, spidery digits darting to grasp at the bridge of his hooked nose. Now _there_ was a mess, and no doubt about it.

"I cannot say, Albus. His whereabouts are... privileged information. I would presume Lucius took him to Malfoy Manor, but we cannot be certain."

"Ah. This is a delicate situation indeed, my young friend," murmured the elderly wizard, his gaze distant behind the ever present half-moon spectacles.

"There was every possibility that I might have been able to intervene before Lucius-"

"No, Severus. We could not risk your being discovered," interrupted the Headmaster gently.

The Potions Master's head snapped up, eyes narrowing as he recognized the tone of his mentor's voice.

"You've an idea as to how to salvage this... disaster, then?"

In answer, the older wizard leaned back, a calculating expression upon his typically genial face.

"Do you think Voldemort might be contacting our young Mr. Malfoy to... congratulate him?"

Severus all but glared at the Headmaster, infamous ire rising to the fore, leaving his expression nothing short of thunderous.

"Are you trying to save him, old man, or _use _him?" he sneered.

"Severus. We need to know Harry's whereabouts, and there is the distinct possibility that Draco may soon be privy to that information," Dumbledore stated, completely glossing over the younger man's snappish tone. One tended to grow accustomed to Severus' tempers after a few years, after all.

"You expect Draco _Malfoy_ to simply abandon everything he's ever learned, to defy his father and the Dark Lord, to help Harry Potter? The same Harry Potter he helped to kidnap earlier this evening?" incredulous, Severus found himself leaning forward, hands clenched on the edge of the Headmaster's desk.

"Precisely, Severus. I am glad we understand one another," the older wizard fairly beamed, unwrapping a toffee covered in colored foil.

"Now, if you don't mind, I have a couple of very anxious Gryffindors that require my attention, and you might want to check on young Mr. Malfoy," and popping the toffee in his mouth, the Headmaster swept from the room in a rustle of screamingly purple robes, leaving a gawking Potions Master in his wake.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

A dungeon. An honest-to-goodness dungeon, complete with dank stone walls and rusted manacles bolted into the ceiling. Despair was palpable in the unwelcoming little space, thick enough to taste on the back of one's tongue, bitter and salty as tears. The room was windowless, light coming from a set of bracketed torches just outside the bars that formed a cell-like enclosure not much larger than a closet.

_A cell within a cell,_ Harry thought, eyeing the interior of his prison once again in search of... well, anything. He'd been unceremoniously thrust within the uncomfortably small enclosure perhaps an hour before, and since then the weary young Gryffindor had passed from a numb sort of terror to bewildered boredom. He could not manage to rest in the small space- it did not permit him the luxury of being long enough to allow him the room to stretch out. Instead, he'd managed to wedge himself into one corner of the miserably small cell, curling into a pained, feverish huddle.

Idly wondering if his captors wanted him to brood himself to death, Harry stared balefully at one of the torches. He was a fool, really... believing Draco sodding Malfoy would just turn around and forget his little plot after their brief adventure in the cave. _Trusting, naive Gryffindor, _he berated himself in Snape's condescending baritone. Still, there had been a moment there when it seemed the Slytherin prefect had been at least reconsidering- _wishful thinking, Harry_, and he blinked back sudden tears. Malfoy and Snape, how could he have been so foolish as to trust them both, to even harbor the vague hope that they might suddenly leap to his aid? Right up to the last, Harry had been expecting _something_, a rescue attempt, or at the very least vehement protest from the younger Malfoy.

_Right, and Voldemort just really needs a good snog and he'll give up on world domination, prat,_ he mentally sneered at himself.

The sound of the door creaking open distracted him from the self-effacing thoughts, and Harry struggled to his feet. He had been expecting Lucius Malfoy to return, but the two wizards that entered were unknown to him. After observing him in silence for a moment, the shorter of the two stepped forward with a chilling smile.

"Mr. Potter. So good of you to join us. Our Lord will be most pleased."

The man's voice was reedy, obnoxiously loud in the quiet. Harry maintained a stony silence, glowering at the two thugs.

"Disrespectful," clucked the taller Death Eater, disapproval obvious upon his aristocratic features. Some disconnected part of Harry's brain wondered if perhaps the man was related to the Malfoys, or if all pure-blooded wizards had that same pinched, pointed look... _inbreeding, perhaps?_ The young Gryffindor smirked, drawing another sound of disappointment from his captors.

"The Dark Lord does not tolerate disrespect, Mr. Potter. Perhaps we should give you some lessons in manners before he arrives."

"I wouldn't respect that _monster_ if the bloody Minister awarded him an Order of Merlin," and Harry could've bitten his tongue out for letting his temper get the better of him.

The two older wizards exchanged a glance, chuckling quietly- their mirth clearly born out of something darker than simple amusement.

"I can see we had better get started if we want to impress the Dark Lord with a well-mannered prize," stated the shorter of the two in his shrill voice, the tone more than the words eliciting a wince from the captive Gryffindor.

Wide, defiant green eyes observed the appearance of two wands, tracked the motion that left both leveled directly at him without so much as a blink. He could do this. They were just goons, for Merlin's sake- like an overgrown Crabbe and Goyle, really.

"_Crucio._

Abruptly Harry found himself unable to keep up the taunting inner monologue, all thoughts running out of his head like water from a sieve. His nerves were on fire- no they were melting, sizzling to crisps beneath skin that was aflame with the pricking of a myriad of tiny needles. He could taste blood, teeth having nicked his tongue in his initial effort to quell the scream fighting its way through the spasming muscles of his throat and jaw. On and on it went, unending waves of agony and pain and he couldn't contain the scream any longer. A wail, visceral and vaguely inhuman in sound followed him down into the darkness pressing on the edges of his vision, and Harry blissfully knew no more.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

"Gone. You mean... gone, as in really gone?"

Ron's voice squeaked, slipping into a boyish octave in his surprise. He was doing an admirable impression of a goldfish as well, lips gaping, eyes wide and bright in his freckled face. The Headmaster merely smiled his enigmatic smile, blue eyes reflecting an endless patience behind the well-polished lenses of spectacles.

"Mr. Weasley. If you will calm yourself, I will explain," he began, lips twitching as the young Ms. Granger rubbed a soothing hand across the redhead's back. The two really were like bookends- a matched set. He'd seen many students come and go over the years, and always found some joy in those that paired off in the course of their schooling. The boy's parents, for instance. Another matched set, joined at the hip. The Headmaster regarded them fondly, awaiting a sign that the young Weasley wasn't about to hyperventilate.

"Feeling better, then?"

Receiving two solemn nods of agreement, he took a deep breath and gave them a rather edited version of the night's events, dancing masterfully around the worst of young Malfoy's involvement. It wasn't precisely lying to them, the clever way he fitted details in to gloss over his omissions- more like storytelling. The Headmaster was pitching a story, and the two young Gryffindors seemed to be buying every word.

Hermione's coffee-dark eyes seemed distant and pensive, breaths taken at points as if she would interrupt. Ron would gently nudge an elbow into her side at those points, as if aware from long experience that once the young witch began to work at a problem, she would be quite difficult to stop.

"And so yes, Mr. Weasley. Harry is gone- taken from the castle grounds," he concluded quietly, hands folding into his robed lap.

"B-but... sir. You know where he is, right? I mean, you've contacted the Order and they're preparing a rescue, right?"

_So very young, and such idealism_, thought Albus Dumbledore with a slowly dawning satisfaction. He had known some worry that they would've allowed the events of the past years to darken that charm, to wear dreams and noble pursuits into the jaded cynicism Severus wore like a cloak. He would protect them forever, if he could.

"No, I am afraid we do not know Harry's precise whereabouts," admitted the elderly wizard.

"But then how...?"

The young witch trailed off, looking stricken at the notion that they had no ready information on her friend's location or current state. Lower lip trembling, her gaze slid from its formerly intense contemplation of the Headmaster to catch Ron's equally wide eyes. The two shared a _look_, unspoken sympathy and some deeper meaning passing between the two housemates in that moment.

Albus could only smile, awaiting the return of their attention or a myriad of questions from the insatiable Ms. Granger. Truly a remarkable girl, that one. He was hinging a fair bit of this plan on her generous nature, not to mention the innate ability she seemed to possess when it came to keeping Mr. Weasley calm. No small feat, that.

"Now, my young friends. I know you are worried, as am I. But I have given you this information for two reasons. Firstly, so that you will stop roaming the castle and the grounds in search. These are dangerous times. Secondly, and perhaps most importantly, I wish you to be able to reassure and inform your fellow students... yes, Ms. Granger?"

The girl was all but squirming in her seat, the obvious tension of restraining her tongue becoming too much to bear.

"But, Professor, you don't want us to... well, keep this quiet? Don't you think it will upset the other students, to know that Harry has been _taken_ from what's considered a safe place?"

"Ah, my dear girl. Secrets are terrible things, you know. Never had any luck with them, and neither have you," a sharpening of those mild blue eyes then, and the young witch had the grace to blush, suddenly finding the hands folded into her lap very interesting.

"Now, then. I promise to keep you informed of the situation as it progresses. I trust you will find your own way back to Gryffindor Tower, then?"

He received two nods in reply, feeling inexplicably old as young Weasley scrambled up and beat a hasty path for the door. Hermione lingered, however, slowly rising and turning to go only to pause, dark eyes inscrutable as they fixed on the Headmaster.

"Ma... um. Draco. He returned to the castle, you said?"

A slow inclination of his bearded chin in response, the wily old wizard feeling a faint stirring of triumph at her question. It wasn't until the two Gryffindors departed in a flurry of youthful energy and school robes that he would turn attention to the tabby cat curled beneath his chair.

"Well, Minerva?"

The cat fixed him with an unblinking stare, padding from beneath the Headmaster's borrowed seat- it was hers, really, but she didn't begrudge his borrowing the office for this little meeting- to resume her natural form. Gathering the folds of her tartan robe about her, Professor McGonagall could only shake her head.

"They are only children, Albus."

He couldn't help but smile at her severity, the lines of her face set into a disapproval she typically reserved for wayward students.

"No, my old friend. They are so much more."


	8. sink or float

_Me once again, and I'm still bemoaning the fact that I don't own any of these characters. Not a one. This... well. This chapter I'm not entirely pleased with, as I couldn't seem to advance the plot as much as I'd like. Muses are fickle. Anyway. Thanks for sticking with me._

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"Draco... where have you been all afternoon? Blaise and I have been looking for you for _hours,_" came Pansy Parkinson's slightly nasal voice, whining as usual.

Three steps. He'd only made it three steps into the Common Room before being set upon by the clinging and, if he was being honest, somewhat pug-nosed Parkinson. A single brow arched languidly upward, as if the question had amused him somehow by its complete inanity.

As was to be expected, Pansy faltered and simpered and generally made herself a nuisance as he stalked through the room, a single glance to the first-years congregating on his favorite couch sending them scattering like so many roaches under sudden light.

Draco had always found the room soothing- muted tones of moss green and heather grey merging to provide an understated sort of warmth. He appreciated understated- no doubt the Gryffindor Common Room was done all in screaming vermillion and gold, all very gaudy and painful to the eyes.

The thought failed to cheer him in the slightest. If he closed his eyes, he could still see Potter's face, upturned and hopeful, green eyes trusting... _Merlin._ Aristocratic features twisted, an abrupt snarl directed at the simpering Pansy.

"Not right now. Go slobber on Blaise."

Resentful, she abandoned the arm of the couch Draco had chosen to lounge upon, drifting off amidst melodramatic sniffles and poorly feigned hurt. The young Malfoy rolled his eyes heavenward, looking askance at the ceiling. Girls.

Having sufficiently intimidated his house mates into leaving him in peace (or in torment, as the case may be), Draco turned a pensive gaze on the fireplace. He should be thrilled at his success, crowing over Potter's shock and that painfully betrayed look he wore even as he disappeared. He should be impressing every Slytherin in the Common Room with the tale of his cunning, of how he, Draco Malfoy, had finally captured the idiotic Golden Boy.

But he wasn't.

More importantly, he didn't even want to. The idea made him vaguely nauseous, which only served to unsettle him further. It was an endless cycle of self-doubt and guilt, twisting the young Slytherin Prince up inside until he thought he might scream. _But Malfoys don't show emotion._

"Mr. Malfoy."

The Potions Master's silky baritone interrupted his brooding, smoky eyes darting upward in badly-concealed surprise.

"A word, if you please," continued the head of Slytherin House, apparently nonplused by Draco's wide-eyed stare.

"Of course, sir," the young wizard managed, levering himself from the couch with characteristic grace. Snape had not bothered waiting for him, and Draco found himself hurrying in the taller man's wake. Eyes firmly fixed upon the hem of the Potions Master's billowing robes, he wondered just what had prompted this- had something gone wrong? Perhaps Potter had escaped... or he'd been killed... or had the Headmaster discovered his hand in things?

Caught up in these many terrifying thoughts, Draco failed to notice the older man had stopped in front of a faded painting and was carrying on a hushed conversation with its occupants. The preoccupied Slytherin Prince just managed to stumble to a halt before barreling into his unamused Head of House.

"Mr. Malfoy, if you would at least endeavor to focus," Snape began, looking almost beleaguered as he gestured Draco through the opening portrait hole.

Startled to find himself in a well-appointed sitting room, Draco hesitated just inside the portal. Bookshelves dominated the walls, cluttered with heavy volumes bound in dark leather. A long couch and matching chairs flanked the sprawling hearth, the reflection of flames swallowed by dark, rich fabric. It was neither spare nor cluttered, but somehow maintaining an earthy, comforting air of welcome.

Realizing he had been staring, the young wizard turned attention to his professor, brows elegantly arched in question.

"Please have a seat, Draco."

He complied, sitting tensely on the edge of the couch. Snape chose one of the chairs, folding his lanky frame into its cushioning depths.

"Doubtless you are wondering why I am risking another chat with you this evening," he began, fingertips tapping a soundless rhythm on the chair's arm.

"Yes, sir."

"Draco. This conversation will remain between the two of us- I would like you to be as candid as is comfortable for you while we are in this room."

"Very well, sir. I... has something gone wrong?"

The dark wings of Snape's brows rose, betraying his surprise at Draco's blunt acceptance of the situation. He had been expecting a struggle for the boy's trust, and this was... mildly startling, to say the least. Not unpleasant, but not expected.

"No. Things have gone precisely as planned."

"Then...why?"

"Why have I brought you here?"

At Draco's nod, the dark man drew a breath, scrutinizing his student closely.

"I wish to know how you view the evening's activities. You will, I hope, tell me exactly what occurred from the time you first encountered Potter until we met in the Forest."

Pale lashes hooding equally pale eyes, Draco considered this. He could tell Snape everything- it would be a relief to share his thoughts. But perhaps this was a test? Perhaps his father wished to know if Draco had any reservation, any doubts about his role in the evening's scheme.

"Draco."

The Potions Master's normally terse baritone was unexpectedly gentle, those black eyes entreating. Unsettled, the younger wizard stared at his clasped hands.

"Sir, I... I don't know what it is you want me to say."

"Mr. Malfoy, this is not an interrogation. I simply thought you might wish to discuss your evening with someone- and I am the only logical choice."

Smoky eyes flickered upward, judging the sincerity of that statement. Snape met his gaze evenly, and Draco was uncomfortably reminded of Potter's open gaze- the way he had patiently waited for Draco to help him out of the pit.

"Do you think we could have a cup of tea... while we talk, Professor?"

The older man smiled, the expression looking peculiar upon his sallow face, as if he didn't regularly exercise those particular facial muscles.

"Of course, Draco."

Answering his professor's ill-fitting smile with a hesitant one of his own, Draco settled more comfortably into the couch's embrace.

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"Potter."

Distantly, Harry could hear the insistent voice, tugging him back toward awareness. He also knew that _aware_ was not a state he was in any hurry to return to- so with a low moan of protest, lashes scrunched more tightly over his eyes.

"Have it your way, then."

That same disconnected part of Harry's brain observed, somewhat inanely, that _that_ statement didn't sound good at all. Reluctantly, a bloodshot eye creaked open, lighting upon the sneering face of Lucius Malfoy.

_Definitely not good_, the captive Gryffindor had time to think before a whispered hex brought him fully and painfully awake. The words were unfamiliar, but the result caught him as somewhere between being jabbed with a red-hot poker and having his arm set ablaze. Setting his teeth against the wash of sensation, Harry straightened up and glared weakly at his captor.

"I see your time with Sutherland and Abernathy did not properly impact you, boy. A pity, that. They will be most disappointed to know you did not take their lessons to heart."

Lucius smiled unpleasantly, aristocratic features twisting in the dim lighting. The younger wizard felt a momentary stab of panic at that smile, wondering uneasily if Lucius meant to indulge in his companions' method of instructing him on the finer points of respect. However the elder Malfoy merely tucked his wand away, twitching the heavy fabric of dark robes back into place.

"You are too willful by half, Potter, and as you seem unaffected by the efforts of my... colleagues... I suppose I will have to take the situation in hand."

"Generous of you," Harry muttered, adjusting his glasses on the bridge of his nose. The frames were warped, having been damaged at some point the evening prior- most likely when he passed out.

"Now, now. Try to appreciate the fact that I am willing to take time out of my exceedingly busy schedule to train you," came the infamous Malfoy drawl, a certain dark amusement lingering behind silver-grey eyes.

"Train me? I'm not a bloody cocker spaniel, you arrogant git."

Distantly, Harry could hear himself mouthing off to the tall blonde, marveling that his tongue seemed to have a will of its own. Lucius looked less entertained, however, a hand darting between the bars of the captive wizard's cage to curl elegantly long fingers around the boy's throat.

"Did I say _train?_ I meant _break. _I will break you, boy. Make no mistake," he hissed, tightening his grasp as Harry ineffectually clawed at the fingers depriving him of much-needed oxygen.

Vision greying, knees threatening yet another collapse upon the cold stone floor, the young Gryffindor made one last effort at prying Malfoy's vice-like grip loose. It was all to no effect, however, and Harry found himself slipping back into unconsciousness, a low chuckle echoing in his ears.

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Hermione absently nibbled at a bit of toast, not feeling hungry in the slightest. Ron sat to her left, systematically mutilating a breakfast sausage. That in itself was enough to draw attention- Ron, not eating? It was unheard of. Across the table from the duo, Seamus Finnigan cast a flinty-eyed look at his house mates, freckled face reflecting mild concern.

"Oi, Weasley. Sausage say somethin' y'took offense to?"

Ron scowled, brandishing his fork at the Irish boy despite the fact that Hermione was already regarding him in mild disapproval.

"Shove off, Finnigan."

Neville, unexpectedly, decided to throw himself into the conversation, round-face going a bit red at his own bravery.

"He didn't mean anything by it, Ron. We just... you know, wondered if everything was all right. You and Hermione were in a right state last night," he stammered softly, eyes intent upon a muffin he was trying to butter to death.

Hermione, plucking the somewhat greasy fork from Ron's grasp, favored the trio of boys with a patient, long-suffering look, dark eyes circled with equally dark rings- bruises betraying that she had not slept well the evening prior.

"Neville, Seamus... Ron and I have a... well. It's about Harry, you see," she began, voice pitched to carry only to those immediately surrounding her at the Gryffindor table. Some eyes swung to the female prefect immediately, others still intent upon their breakfast. Clutching Ron's hand beneath the table for support, Hermione quietly explained the events of the evening as she understood them, unaware that the little commotion in their corner of the Great Hall was being observed by a pair of stormy grey eyes.

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_Ruddy Granger and her sodding Weasel, _Draco thought viciously, stabbing at his eggs with more force than was necessary. Watching the yellow yolk ooze across his plate, the blonde decided to give up on breakfast- his stomach wasn't entirely up to the experience.

He'd spent most of the evening in Professor Snape's sitting room, discussing Potter, Death Eaters, and the Dark Lord. None of it made for good bedtime conversation, and Draco had been unable to sleep without being plagued with nightmares. Still uneasy despite having shared some of his concerns with his Head of House, the Slytherin prince found himself envying the Gryffindor bunch- all huddled together, no doubt having a touchy-feely session of _Who Misses Potter the Most_, or something equally ridiculous. Envying them, for Merlin's sake. Here he sat, all tied up in knots over accomplishing a feat which would earn him respect and admiration from every dark wizard in leagues, unable to share his _feelings_ with anyone save Professor Snape (and that wasn't entirely a comfortable situation, to be honest), and... ugh.

Disgusted at the turn his thoughts had taken, Draco stood abruptly, jaw set and expression stony. Clearly, he needed more rest. Snape would let him skive off Potions, even before their little heart-to-heart Draco had no concerns over missing the occasional class. Ignoring the looks of confusion his house mates cast in his direction, the Malfoy heir turned to stalk out of the Great Hall... only to find himself face to face with a red-faced Hermione Granger.

"Granger. What on _Earth?" _Draco snapped, his temper considerably short this morning.

"I didn't intend to startle you, really... I just wanted to catch you before you left the Hall," the girl offered, looking properly abashed at having nearly caused a head-on collision.

"Missing your counterparts, aren't you?"

Feeling unaccountably guilty as the girl's face fell, Draco resumed his path toward the doors, hoping she'd be unwilling to follow. He wasn't entirely certain he was up to verbally sparring with the Gryffindors this morning.

"Malfoy, wait... please?"

Even though the _please_ sounded as if it had been wrung from her under threat of death, it prompted Draco to beckon the young witch to follow him. They were the focus of entirely too much attention in the middle of the Great Hall, and he wasn't going to be seen consorting with Granger of all people if it could be helped. Hearing her struggling to catch up, the blonde slowed his pace, heading for an abandoned classroom he knew to be in the immediate area.

This was either going to be good for a laugh, or it was going to be an unmitigated disaster.

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"My lord, things have gone precisely as you planned them."

"Of course, Severus. I knew young Malfoy would not fail us. His family's loyalty is impeccable."

Severus Snape cautiously straightened from where he had knelt in front of the Dark Lord, eyes still firmly affixed to the hem of robes dyed an imposing blood red. Feeling spidery digits settle upon a shoulder, he fought a sudden urge to shudder. This new body of Voldemort's was inhumanly grotesque, trying to even Severus' normally placid facade.

"You still have gleaned nothing of the prophecy, my dear boy?"

Clenching his teeth at hearing _that _particular endearment from lips other than the Headmaster's, Severus shook his head.

"I fear the only ones with knowledge of the prophecy to be the boy and Dumbledore himself, and I highly doubt either will be forthcoming with the information," he murmured lowly, as if in deep regret at being unable to discern the contents of the prophecy.

Laughter then, high-pitched and chilling, echoing weirdly off the stone walls of the cavern Severus had been summoned to. Swallowing a sense of foreboding at the sound of the Dark Lord's amusement, the Potions Master rocked back on his heels, rising back to his full height. Face-to-face now with his second master, Severus allowed carefully blank eyes to meet Voldemort's crimson gaze, inwardly quailing at the malevolent humor he could see glittering in those inhuman depths.

"The boy will be persuaded to tell us in due time, my traitor. Lucius assures me he has things well in hand."

Smiling blandly, Severus nodded to the words, desperately trying to recall whether or not he'd brewed anything particularly nasty for the elder Malfoy lately- he was loathe to have more of a hand in Potter's misfortune.

"Now, Severus. I have summoned you because I wish you to provide young Malfoy with _this_," the Dark Lord began, producing an empty potion vial. Brows arched in question, Severus took the small item and tucked it away into one of the many pockets in his teaching robes.

"A timed portkey. Young Malfoy will need to be in possession of the item this evening. His father and I are both... most anxious to congratulate him."

"Of course, my lord. If that will be all, I must return to Hogwarts or risk Dumbledore noticing my absence."

"Are you attempting to dismiss _me, _Severus?"

Eyes widening in unfeigned horror, the Potions Master shook his head, hands held forth in supplication.

"No, my lord... I meant no disrespect," he began, baritone laced with hasty denial.

"You have been too long without a proper master, my traitor. Perhaps I should remind you what it is I expect from my chosen few," Voldemort hissed, serpentine features darkening with anger.

Severus could only bow his head in acceptance of punishment, mentally distancing himself from his body. It was a useful tool, one that he had learned over years of painful service to the dark. Crooked teeth clenched tightly together, the Potions Master could almost disconnect himself entirely from the wash of agony from a hissed _cruciatus. _Almost.

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	9. troubles enough

_Still with me? I'm flattered and very grateful. So the standard disclaimers apply: Not mine, never will be, and the esteemed Lady Rowling is a goddess. Anyway. There's a bit of Harry-bashing in here, but nothing too graphic. Keep it in mind, kiddies. I like dark and so dark it shall be. _

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Screaming. Someone was screaming.

Hoarse cries rang out, endless and ragged, incoherent pleas mixed in with the breathless wailing. Every now and again came a hiccup, breath hitching sharply before hysteria resumed.

He'd been prepared for curses. He'd been dreading hexes. Every nerve had been in anticipation of _crucio_. He had been terribly, horribly mistaken.

Lucius Malfoy, it seemed, harbored a Weasley-like fascination in a very specific aspect of Muggle life. Torture. He delighted in the ingenious, non-magical methods of producing pain. So it was that Harry found himself naked, face down, spread-eagled and pinioned at wrists and ankles. The loss of clothing had concerned him greatly, as if his last vestiges of armor had been stripped from him, leaving him nothing but a scared teenage boy- not a powerful wizard in the making. Lucius had even taken his glasses, tossing them aside with a disdainful sniff. Not that there had been much of a view as the young Gryffindor had been bound, but the loss of vision made him feel just that much more vulnerable.

What had come next had resulted in the screaming, the high keening cries that he couldn't seem to stop. Malfoy had produced a thick, braided rope and systematically set about opening Harry's back in long, painful welts. Each lick of the whip was like fire, searing across the unprotected flanks of sides, across the backs of thighs- not an inch of flesh was spared. If Harry had been more in control of his faculties, he might've appreciated the elder Malfoy's stamina. As it was, he could only thrash against the shackles binding wrists and ankles, trying in vain to escape the whistling bite of that whip.

He didn't even have the luxury of passing out, as every time the battered Gryffindor attempted to slip into unconsciousness a quick _ennervate_ had him fully aware once again. Harry's world dwindled to the vicious ache in his extremities and the sharp, painful licks of the whip, Malfoy's drawling voice insistently belittling in the background.

"Insignificant."

_Crack._

"Impertinent."

_Crack._

"Disrespectful."

_Crack._

The Boy Who Lived wept, writhing on the low table. When Malfoy seemed to tire of the activity, he leaned close over the sobbing youth, running the course whip across abraded flesh in a sick parody of a comforting caress.

"I shall leave you to think about the error of your ways, boy," he murmured close in the shell of Harry's ear, digging a long finger into the still gaping wound in the boy's shoulder, drawing a keening moan of protest.

Some distant part of the Gryffindor began to long for his body to give out, his thoughts bleak and disjointed as Lucius strode from the room, barking for a house elf to draw him a bath.

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"Granger, you honestly want to chat me up about Potter?"

Hermione shifted uneasily, watching the blonde boy's incredulity mount with every passing second. They'd been in this little classroom for nearly half an hour now, going in circles in a characteristic battle of insults and witty repartee. The Gryffindor prefect's temper was rapidly fraying- she was missing class for this, after all.

"Look, I know you saw him last night. I just want to know how he was- was he afraid? Was he hurt?"

She hated the whine in her voice, the underlying hint of desperation at discerning anything new about her friend's state. It seemed to amuse the Slytherin prince, however, prompting a slow twitch of the muscles at either corner of his thin lips.

"Terrified, Granger. Screamed like a girl," he drawled slowly, pale eyes flickering away from her even as he spoke.

"Malfoy, please. I need to know... it's important, don't you see?"

Hermione sighed as he turned back, a single blonde brow sweeping upward in a very good impression of one of Snape's more condescending expressions.

"Why? Why is it so bloody important?"

"Because he's my friend," she offered simply, arms coming to fold across her chest. She was perplexed as to Malfoy's reticence to share any information with her. It wasn't as if he was keeping secrets- she already knew. Dumbledore had explained the whole thing, as he was well aware. Feeling piqued that he would withhold the truth just to aggravate her, Hermione stifled a sudden urge to just hex him and be done, distantly wondering why she was channeling Ron.

Malfoy settled onto the edge of a desk, looking nearly as uncomfortable as she felt. Folding elegant hands in his lap, he eyed her with what seemed like a peculiar mixture of enmity, confusion, and guilt. It left Hermione puzzled, blinking slowly as her analytical mind attempted to pick apart the strange conglomeration of emotion.

"Look, Granger. Last I saw he was fine... well. Close enough," he amended with a shrug, earning a dark look from the Gryffindor prefect.

"What do you mean _close enough_?"

"Merlin, are you always so demanding?" he snarled, stormy eyes narrowing a fraction.

Hermione did not dignify that with a response, glowering in return at the irate Slytherin. He was keeping something from her, and she was just stubborn enough to keep at this until he either caved... or lost himself a lot of House points by hexing her.

"Fine, fine. He wasn't seriously injured, if that's what you're after. Just bumps and bruises. He didn't scream or cry or any of that rot. He just... glared," concluded with yet another shrug, aristocratic features settling into a rather bland expression.

Nearly satisfied, Hermione straightened up to fix the blonde with a strained smile, vaguely bemused at how his eyes widened at that.

"Thank you, Draco. If you think of anything else... or... well. Want to talk," she offered awkwardly, wondering what had possessed her to say that. Ron would have kittens to find her chatting with Malfoy.

"Right, Granger. Then we can have cocoa and braid each other's hair," sneered the young wizard, abruptly standing and stalking from the room, leaving a slightly bewildered Hermione in his wake.

That had certainly been... something.

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"Severus, my boy, are you certain you are quite well?"

The Potions Master nearly flinched at the use of the endearment, recalling it spoken in a voice that was higher pitched and far more sibilant.

"Fine, Albus. Nothing a quick restorative will not make short work of, I assure you," he murmured gruffly, clutching at the arms of the ridiculously overstuffed chair to still the lasting tremors in his hands.

Sighing, the Headmaster sat forward, elbows resting on the cluttered surface of his desk. Behind him, a portrait murmured something about disrespect, earning a sharp glare from Snape's dark eyes.

"As to the portkey, are you quite certain we should allow another student to be taken from the grounds?"

"Now, Severus, we must trust that no harm is intended toward young Mr. Malfoy. I don't suppose anything was said about your accompanying him this evening?" queried in a hopeful sort of voice, blue eyes thoughtful over the rims of spectacles.

"Unfortunately not, Albus. I could arrange to be holding the portkey as well, but I do not believe it to be part of the Dark Lord's plan for the evening," he confided.

"In that case, let us not tempt fate a second time today," Dumbledore murmured gently, favoring the younger man with a fond look. Severus merely rolled his dark eyes skyward, though he was not truly as irritated with the concern as he made out- it was all part of the act.

"If you insist," the Potions Master shrugged, feigning indifference.

"That I do, my boy. Now off with you, as I'm sure you are quite anxious to speak with young Draco."

Snorting at the Headmaster's dismissal, which hadn't changed much over the years much to his dismay, Severus stood and twitched his robes back into place- ignoring the dirt and grime that had gathered from his earlier prostrations in the dust.

"Quite, Albus. If you will excuse me," and with a quick inclination of his head, the Potions Master swept from the room in a whisper of billowing robes.

Left to his own devices and a host of clamoring portraits, the Headmaster simply shook his head, observing to no one in particular that Severus really was too proud for his own good.

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"Are you properly ashamed of your behavior thus far, Potter? We cannot proceed until you apologize for your earlier disrespect."

Disoriented, Harry squinted toward the sound of the voice, trying to focus bleary emerald eyes. He could only assume he had passed out once again, because the bewildered young man could've sworn he had been shackled to a table. Now he was upright, hanging at an excrutiating angle from wounded wrists. The dull throb in his shoulder had awakened with a vengeance, pulsing in time to a sluggish heartbeat and radiating an unhealthy sort of warmth as well. In fact, the captive Gryffindor felt feverish in general, sweat and blood sheening his battered body.

"Well? I am not a patient man, young Potter," Lucius drawled, finally coming into Harry's line of vision- blurred though it was. Of course, the tall blonde still looked impeccable, dark robes spotless, gloved hands steepled beneath his pointed chin. Facial features were nothing but a pale smear, but Harry thought he could detect the malicious glitter of grey eyes- though it might be a product of his fevered imagination.

"Sod. Off," the younger wizard carefully enunciated, the words clipped as if he'd bitten them off.

Lucius chuckled softly, and it was nothing like the laughter that had been startled out of Draco the day before. Had it only been a day before? It seemed like a lifetime, a whole different universe in which he had been a student, a friend... not this thing hanging from a dungeon ceiling, trying to force shaky legs to hold up meager weight.

"I can see we have quite the lot of ground to cover before the Dark Lord's arrival this evening."

Harry started, a frisson of true fear tickling along the abraded length of his spine. Another low chuckle sounded as the blonde wizard paced out of his sight, motions graceful as any stalking predator.

"Frightened, Potter? Perhaps there is hope for you after all."

The voice was behind him now, an ominous hissing and clanking underscoring the words. Torn between wanting to glare at his tormentor and not wanting to know what was about to happen, the young wizard shuddered, clenching his teeth and scrunching eyes closed.

When the brand contacted the small of his back, the slight youth screamed and arched forward, nearly yanking his arms free of abused sockets.

"Now, about that apology..."

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Stones skipped evenly across the surface of the lake, hopping once, twice, a third time and then disappearing beneath lingering ripples. Palming another stone, Draco straightened from his crouch at the lake's edge, gaze distant and troubled.

Damn Granger for demanding anything from him. Why was she so bloody concerned, anyway? It wasn't as if she could _do_ anything for her precious golden boy, never mind how brilliant she supposedly was.

The blonde sent the last stone skittering across the lake, glowering as it only skipped once before sinking. Unoccupied hands folded within the depths of his robes, as if he had suddenly noticed the temperature wasn't precisely inviting students to come linger out of doors. Grey eyes surveyed an equally grey sky, the promise of snow hinting in gathering clouds and in the taste of the brisk air. Draco was not overly fond of winter- the cold ate right through his slender frame. Even now he was shivering, cursing whatever folly had driven him to escape the castle.

It had been Granger's fault, really. And Pansy. And all the other simpering, interfering prats that simply wouldn't leave him be to brood in peace. Grumbling under his breath, Draco pivoted on a heel and began to make his way back up to the castle's doors.

He was not worried about Potter. He _was not_. The heir to the Malfoy name did not concern himself over whether or not some sniveling mudblood was reduced to begging _him_ for information. When he closed his eyes he _did not_ see hurt emerald eyes reflecting betrayal and abandonment. And he most certainly was not having second thoughts about his service to the Dark Lord. His father was proud of him, and that was enough.

Wasn't it?

Working himself into a towering snit, Draco Malfoy barreled through the massive front doors and into the entrance hall, earning more than a few looks of cringing surprise. He snarled at the attention, delicately pointed features twisted in rage. He was the Prince of Slytherin, the heir to a legacy of darkness and power, and he was not going to let some niggling bit of conscience ruin his day!

He had almost managed to convince himself of such when long fingers abruptly closed on his left shoulder, Snape's silky baritone interrupting his jibbering inner monologue.

"Mr. Malfoy, if you could tear yourself away from terrorizing your fellow students, I would like a word with you."

_Oh, not again_, Draco groaned mentally, mustering an unconcerned shrug to the summons that effectively dislodged the older man's potions stained hand.

"Yes, sir."

He wondered if he sounded as defeated as he felt. Probably. Uncomfortably aware that nothing had gone right since the moment he set eyes on Potter in the Forbidden Forest, the young wizard followed his Head of House into the labyrinthine halls of the dungeons.

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"Ronald Weasley, you put that down right this _instant_!" Hermione snapped, hands on hips as she glared at the redhead.

"Come on, 'Mione... just a peek? I couldn't concentrate last night with everything.."

Expression softening just a fraction, Gryffindor's resident bookworm relented and let her friend peruse her notes for the moment.

"A peek, then. And don't you dare crinkle that parchment," she sniffed, easing into her favorite fireside chair. Crookshanks was soon in her lap, shedding madly across the dark fabric of her robes. Ron, perched like an oversized freckled vulture on the arm of the nearest couch, snorted softly.

"Wouldn't dream of it," he offered dryly, earning a sharp look from his friend.

"I'll have you know I don't allow just anyone to read my notes, prat."

"I know. More's the pity- you could make a bloody fortune letting people copy off... oi! Give those back, I wasn't finished yet!"

Hermione, in a manuever worthy of a seeker, had leaned forward to snatch the parchment from Ron's loose grasp. Sitting back, she smoothed imaginary wrinkles from the corners, huffing quietly.

"Honestly, Ron... that would be an awful infraction," she began, only to have the redheaded wizard squint at her with a certain crafty glitter of blue eyes.

"Speaking of, where were you this morning? You were actually _late _to class."

The bushy-headed witch suddenly became very interested in returning her notes to the cluttered depths of her school satchel, rearranging books and bits of parchment for a long moment.

"Come on, out with it," Ron prompted impatiently.

"I... I went to speak with Malfoy."

"You did **_what?_**"

It was to be expected, really, that explosion of shock and horror from her hot-headed friend, and Hermione could only sigh.

"Ron, really. I wanted to ask him about Harry."

"You asked _Malfoy_ about Harry? Why? I don't care what Dumbledore says, that nasty git had something to do with Harry getting lost in the forest," sputtered Ron, arms gesturing so wildly he nearly knocked himself from the couch's arm.

"I asked Malfoy," she said with over-exaggerated patience, "because he could tell me how Harry was when he was taken. It's rather important to know what sort of state he was in, after all."

Ron goggled, suddenly pale beneath his freckles.

"Did he say? I mean, I didn't even think to ask..." stammering now, the youngest Weasley male leaned forward to peer intently at his friend.

"Which is why I asked, of course," she gently pointed out, "And yes, Malfoy says Harry was well enough."

"Well enough? What in the bloody hell does that mean?"

"Now, Ron... calm down. It means that Harry wasn't stunned or seriously wounded when he was taken."

Sighing, the redhead flopped back to sprawl on the couch, staring at the ceiling in obvious bewilderment.

"I hadn't even thought of that. Blimey, 'Mione... I just.. I guess I just assumed he was all right. Harry's always all right, you know?"

"I know, Ron" sighed the studious young witch, eyes dark with sympathy and concern.

Harry was always all right. He had to be. It was an integral, necessary part of the their orderly little universe. The Dark Lord may be out for their friend, but he always triumphed.

Because the good guys always win.

Don't they?

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

For the second time in as many days, Draco found himself seated awkwardly within the cushioning depths of a couch in Snape's private sitting room. Cradling a cup of tea between hands suddenly beset with the tiniest of tremors, he tried, rather unsuccessfully, not to gawk at his professor.

"He wants me to come to the Manor _tonight?"_

The aristocratic young blond winced as his voice cracked, thrusting itself into an octave he hadn't heard in years.

"Mr. Malfoy, if you will calm yourself I will explain," Snape smoothly cut in, effectively derailing any thoughts Draco might have had about protesting such a move.

Sighing around the rim of his cup, the Malfoy heir nodded in a sullen sort of silence, observing with vague satisfaction that his head of house seemed just as uncomfortable as he was feeling.

"The Dark Lord has requested your presence, yes. He has provided a portkey, but I cannot guarantee it will take you to the Manor. That is my best guess as to where you will be visiting, as the Dark Lord wishes to see you and your father together and... most likely, he wishes to see Potter as well. Therefore the Manor becomes the most likely place for a rendevous."

Draco nearly choked on his tea, suddenly faced with the idea of not only seeing the Dark Lord, but having to come face to face with Potter once more. It was bad enough the irritating Gryffindor was haunting his days at school, must he be forced to endure the boy's presence when he should be enjoying praise and congratulations from his father and the Dark Lord as well?

Frowning severely, the Potions Master resumed speaking, his own cup of tea going untouched on the table next to his chair.

"When you arrive, it will be essential that you _do not_ look at the Dark Lord. Do not make eye contact, do not speak unless spoken to, do not presume any arrogance in his presence," came the silky baritone, clipped and terse as it was when directing particularly dense students.

If he was intending to unnerve his student, he was doing an excellent job of it. Draco was becoming more and more anxious by the moment. It was one thing to hear about the Dark Lord, to imagine being in his favor, to admire the idea from afar as a thing only the most powerful of wizards could do... it was another thing entirely to have a meeting hours away and realize that there were rules and protocols to follow, and what happened if he forgot something? The blonde was certain he didn't really want to know.

On and on and on went the rules, whole lists of proper ways to address the Dark Lord, times to kneel, when to kiss the hem of his robes...

Draco's head felt as if it had been stuffed full of cotton. The Potions Master's voice became more and more distant, a consistent deeply-voiced murmur in the background. The Slytherin was forced to recognize that _this_ was fear. He was afraid. Afraid of a misstep, afraid to shame his father, to undo all that he had done in kid-napping Harry.

Harry, who inspired an entirely different feeling- not fear so much as apprehension. Recognizing belatedly that Snape had stopped speaking and was now regarding him with some irritation, Draco snapped back to attention.

"..Yes, sir. I understand and will... endeavor to make you and my father proud," he stated firmly, only the tiniest of hesitations to the offer belying his jangling nerves.

The older wizard nodded, his expression not unkind as he produced an empty potion vial, the motion as fluid and untraceable as any stage magician's slight-of-hand. Startled, the blond youth stared at the innocuous item until another motion from the professor left it airborne, spiraling into a glittering arch toward the couch. A seeker's reflexes had long fingers closed around the cool glass without a second thought, and Draco found himself holding his destiny in steady hands.


	10. all on black

_I'm back! You missed me, right? Hah. Anyway, m'sorry this took so long and that it is, admittedly, not some of my best work. New job and some personal issues have kept the muses at bay. But we're muddling along, and some plot advancement at last. Er... sorta. Once again, not my characters, I just string them along for my own twisted amusement. This is a mature fic, and it does involve some mention of torture. So be forewarned._

_That said, on with the show._

_ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo_

"Lucius. I trust you have things well in hand with our young guest."

"Of course, my lord. Things are progressing at a most gratifying pace," came the smooth response from the blonde, sleek head bowed low.

"And your son?"

"He will be joining us shortly, my lord. Narcissa, unfortunately, insisted on feeding him before she would send him down."

"Ah, Lucius. You should not be so hard on the lovely lady Malfoy. A mother's love, as we have all learned, is not to be taken lightly."

There was something hard beneath the sibilance, a bitterness that bled into the soft words and prompted a tightening of Lucius' shoulders.

"Of course, my lord. Accompany me downstairs, or would you prefer to wait until Draco joins us?"

Spidery fingers gestured negligently, the blood red robes inching upward on an arm far too thin to belong to a fully grown man, flesh a sickly white- not the alabaster purity the Malfoys enjoyed, more a bluish-white that hinted at decay.

"Lead on, Lucius. We will leave your boy to his dinner. No sense in prolonging my anticipation any longer."

Another sweeping bow from the blonde, arm flung outward to a door that had been unseen until now. The antechamber they had been standing within was richly appointed, of course. All mahogany panels and tapestries older than some of those that decorated the walls of Hogwarts, a darkness that hinted at opulence and suffocating warmth. The room was circular, only one exit visible until Lucius had made that smooth gesture that seemed to prompt a doorknob to coalesce where there had been bare wood paneling.

"Clever, Lucius. I trust only you can use that entrance."

"Only those of Malfoy blood, my lord. The charm is an old one, and we know how the Ministry views blood magicks these days."

The two shared a malicious chuckle, neither sounding entirely human as they passed from the antechamber into the dank stairwell that would lead them down into the dungeons below Malfoy Manor. Above them, a mother and son were sharing a meal in silence, forks clinking against expensive china. And below them, a raven-haired boy wept and shivered in the darkness, wrapped in fever dreams.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Harry hurt. As simple as that, slight frame wracked by assorted pains he did not care to catalogue. Whippings had given way to brandings, brandings had given way to the insertion of needles beneath flushed skin, and all the while there had been verbal abuse- a litany of Harry's failings as a human being, as a student, as a friend... as a would-be saviour.

Dimly, the teenager was aware of the pain, a sharp overtone to the dull throb of hunger and the shivering heat of fever. Still nude, bereft of glasses, he huddled in the corner of the dungeon space, arms wrapped around his midsection and knees drawn to chin. If he thought himself pathetic in the posture, near foetal position upon the cold stone floor, it didn't show upon drawn features. Emerald eyes were heavy-lidded, dulled to jade above cheeks hectic with color.

The thing first upon his mind was the new pain, the knife-sharp stab at his brow that was enough to draw tears to his eyes. That pain, white and noisy in its clamor for attention, meant his tormentor had been true to his word- Voldemort had arrived.

So intent was he upon not drowning in the agony of that headache or the frantic clamor of fear, the battered young Gryffindor missed the creak of the door opening.

"We meet again, young Potter. You are looking rather less spirited than last time, I see."

It was a nightmare. For an instant, Harry held fast to the idea that this was just some product of his fevered imagination, a persistent fear come to haunt him in his misery. But when he squinted up, there stood Lord Voldemort, a smear of pallor against robes the color of fresh blood. At his elbow presumably stood Lucius, only distinguishable by the white-blonde of his hair.

"Then you won't mind if I don't get up and bow," he grunted, rearranging limbs in a parody of self-consciousness.

Laughter sounded, a slithering, dry sort of amusement that carried no undertone of merriment at all, crawling across Harry's skin like a live thing. It made him want to shudder, to block out the sound, but he wouldn't give either of them the satisfaction of watching him cower.

"Lucius, it would seem your formidable skills have met their match."

A low scoff from the blonde, long-fingered hands making some gesture of dismissal at the implied insult.

"He has been in my care but a short while, my Lord. I assure you, he will grovel most satisfactorily soon enough," he assured in a smooth, oily voice. Harry found himself wondering why no one ever picked up on that tone of voice from Lucius Malfoy, the one that hinted at terrible things and a myriad of sins beneath its cultured tones. Were they all so blind?

"For your sake, I do hope so. I will be most disappointed in you otherwise, my snake. And you know I don't take well to disappointment," Voldemort hissed, threat implicit in the soft reprimand.

Viciously gratified that he had gotten the cruel blonde in some measure of trouble with his master, the battered Gryffindor could not prevent the twist of his lips in something that was more grimace than smile. Unfortunately, it did not go unnoticed by either tormentor.

"Lucius, I believe your young guest is mocking us. Perhaps another lesson is in order?"

The not-so-gentle prompt had the cool weight of dread blossoming in Harry's stomach, leaden and heavy as it threatened to rob him of breath. Not again, not so soon. He was suddenly afraid that he no longer possessed the energy to swallow back his screams, and the idea of Voldemort enjoying the sounds of his torment left him feeling ashamed and weak. Expression scrunched, eyes tightly closed to block out the sight of what was to come.

It was almost a blessing when he heard the whisper of robes and a smoothly incanted _crucio_, the Unforgivable tearing through nerves and muscles to leave him in a jittering, seizing mess on the straw-covered floor. But he didn't scream.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

The air was cooler as Draco descended the stairs, only the eerie dance of shadows across the stone walls to accompany him down. His mother had departed him in the room above, a warning in her cold blue eyes. His stomach was in knots, head filled with the memory of Snape's instructions as he came upon the heavy outer door that led into the dungeons.

Beneath Malfoy Manor lay a cris-crossing morass of catacombs and stone-walled rooms: dungeon spaces large and small, abandoned tombs and forgotten crypts. The blonde teen found himself shivering and jaw clenched as he willed himself into stillness, a hand splayed across the cold door to press it inward. He could not hear his father or the Dark Lord, and wasn't sure whether that was a blessing or a curse. Had they already returned upstairs? And was he a coward for wishing such?

Resolutely he continued on, until he came to the barred door at the end of the cramped hallway. Beyond he could hear nothing save labored breath and what might've been laughter, but it was cold laughter- malicious, too highly pitched. Swallowing carefully, Draco swung open the door and stared, horror-struck at the scene that met his eyes.

His father stood, wand outstretched and pointed at the jerking, nude form of one Harry Potter. The other teen looked wretched, and Draco's heart turned over in his chest, seizing up with mingled horror and pity, guilt somewhere beneath the clammy pain of sympathy. _Sympathy?_

The young raven-haired wizard was curled awkwardly on his side, olive-toned skin gone to sickly yellow, covered in blood and the shiny redness of burns. Lips were open in a soundless scream, and Draco watched in morbid fascination as the other boy's Adam's apple bobbed, the muscles in his throat working desperately to produce sound... or not to produce it. Nails scrabbled at the floor, and Draco gasped aloud as Harry rolled to reveal the ruin that was his back.

The noise seemed to draw his father and the Dark Lord from their cruel amusement, cold greys and inhuman reds finding the gaping blonde. Neither seemed amused, and Draco found himself unable to recall a single one of Snape's meticulous instructions. His mind was absolutely, terrifyingly blank.

"Draco," hissed the elder Malfoy, a world of warning and disapproval lacing the two syllables. Wand dropped to his side, and Potter ceased flopping like a landed fish, neither of the adult wizards sparing him any further attention.

"Father, my Lord," the teen finally managed, voice threatening to break. He stooped, assuming a kneel upon the cold stone floor. From beneath a pale sweep of lash he studied the hems of robes, trying to fight the irrational urge to peer around them to check on Harry, whose muted, hitching breaths he could still hear, thick and wet as if with unshed tears.

"Ah, young Malfoy. I am pleased you were able to join us," came a voice that made the hair on the back of Draco's neck stand up. He watched as blood-red robes filled his vision, ghosting over the flagged stone floor without so much as a sound. It only served to make the entire scene more surreal.

"I am honored, my Lord."

He twitched as a hand found his shoulder, sharp fingertips digging into flesh and bone with a painful insistence.

"You are everything I would have hoped for in Lucius' son. Arise, young Malfoy, and allow me to congratulate you."

Trying desperately to school angular features into what he hoped approximated a smug look, he straightened, lash still hooding pale greys. _Don't look, don't look..._but it was like a quidditch accident, a morbid, unreasoning fascination in studying this _thing_ that was the Dark Lord.

His eyes found the captive Gryffindor instead, and for a heart-stopping moment, he thought Harry to be dead. His eyes were wide and staring, a glazed, dull green that locked onto startled greys. Then betrayal flashed through those eyes, and Draco wasn't sure whether it was an improvement- that look of disbelief and anguish from the raven-haired wizard instead of his sightless staring.

From the corner of his gaze he caught sight of his father, preening beneath the shared glory of having aided in the capture of the infamous Harry Potter. Disgust sizzled through the blonde teen then, abrupt and unexpected, reflected upon aristocratic features.

"He is pathetic, is he not, young Malfoy?"

Misinterpreting his expression, Voldemort cast a disdainful glance to the sprawled Gryffindor, earning a weak glower in return. Draco nodded dumbly, unwilling to trust his tongue to come up with a proper response. His emotions were trying to betray him at the worst possible of moments, and it was inconceivable... to have worked years to be hard and cold and untouchable to be so undone now.

"You see now why he could never have hoped to defeat me. How weak he is, how easily broken. You have done well, Draco. Your place will be assured alongside your father's one day soon."

And for no reason he could place, Draco Malfoy felt no pride at all, no warm swell of smug superiority. He felt sick and lost, trapped between two monsters and the sudden weight of knowledge that he was one of the bad guys. It was a strange revelation, to know that somewhere he'd gone from taunting and bullying to having a hand in what would surely be Harry's death.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

"Ron!"

It was a whisper, a hiss of understated demand that had the redhead looking up from his plate, brows arched in question. Hermione was staring over his shoulder, dark eyes intent upon something in the distance. Swallowing around a mouthful of potato, Ron turned to follow her gaze only to be swatted in the arm for his trouble.

"Ow, Hermione! What was that for?"

Rubbing the spot where she'd contacted his skin as if in serious affront, he earned a roll of those coffee-dark eyes as his friend settled back down to her spot on the long bench.

"Malfoy's not at dinner," she stated, matter-of-fact and just a little worried.

Ron's brows drew together, freckled features scrunching in thought.

"You think...?"

He'd learned it was better just to prompt her that way, rather than risk speculation and her inevitably pointing out that his reasoning was flawed. So he lifted a dinner roll, tearing it into two uneven pieces to slather butter across both, attention firmly affixed to the pensive Hermione.

"Isn't it obvious? He's probably left the castle- he might even be where Harry is," she breathed, suddenly excited. Ron found himself staring at the way her lips quirked up at the corners, not quite a smile but close enough- as if she'd worked out a puzzle and was particularly self-satisfied. Then he noticed she was watching him, expression fallen into long-suffering lines.

"Have you even been listening? Honestly, Ron... it's like your brain goes on vacation at meal times."

"Oi! I was so listening," he muttered, indignant and not just a little embarrassed to have been caught staring. Abandoning his efforts with the now soggy roll, the redhead leaned across onto his elbows, blue eyes intense.

"So Malfoy knows where Harry is... when he gets back, we can...erm. What are we going to do?"

Another prompt, somehow feeling that his immediate suggestion, which involved pounding the pointy-faced Slytherin against a wall until he told them about their missing friend's whereabouts, probably wouldn't go over well. But Hermione just rolled her eyes again, standing to fix her friend with a frighteningly familiar look.

"I've got an idea."

Ron watched her dart out of the Great Hall, wondering, as usual, if he should be relieved... or worried. He rather suspected the latter.


End file.
